


Incubus

by Thymesis



Series: Star Wars Rare Pairs Collection (NC-17) [17]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Age Difference, Consent Issues, Explicit Sexual Content, Force Bond (Star Wars), Force Ghosts, M/M, Master/Apprentice Relationships, Pining, Pre-Star Wars: The Force Awakens, Rare Pairing, Uncle/Nephew Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-20
Updated: 2018-01-11
Packaged: 2019-02-17 14:26:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13078785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thymesis/pseuds/Thymesis
Summary: Can a Jedi Master and Apprentice be lovers? In the Temple Gardens one night, Ben Solo sees something that gives him reason to think so.And now, he realizes he has never wanted anything, or anyone, as much as he wants Uncle Luke.





	1. Ben

**Author's Note:**

> There are no TLJ spoilers in this story, but if you have already seen the movie, you’ll figure out where I’m going with this much faster. ;-)

In the beginning, Ben Solo thought he was the only one who could see them.

It was the little one that appeared most often, the greenish, wizened one dressed in rags with the big, long, pointy ears and the stature of a child. Usually he’d see it simply sitting somewhere, on a rock or a low-hanging tree branch, and occasionally he’d see it hobbling around, a walking stick in a clawed, three-fingered hand to guide its steps. One time, Ben had tried following it as it pottered about the Temple, calling out, trying to make conversation, to ask questions, and then at last to issue accusations, demands. But it hadn’t seemed to notice him—it had just continued on its merry, plodding way, humming, muttering, and chuckling to itself—and then, when he had stood directly in its path, it had passed straight through him. Just like a storybook ghost.

That was a… _disconcerting_ experience. Ben had definitely felt something strange when the little spirit creature had passed through him: a warm, buzzing vibration that recalled his earliest memories of days as a young boy spent snuggled in his mother’s arms while she drank a cup of caf and read her daily Senate briefings. It couldn’t possibly have been purely his own admittedly overactive imagination. Ben decided right then and there that it _had_ to be a ghost.

And there were two other ghosts as well, human-shaped ones. In the bright light of the sun, they appeared translucent; in darkness, they were limned in their own soft blue radiance. These two Ben perceived rather less frequently, but when he did see them, they were virtually always together, side by side, so close that the ankle-length hems of their peasant robes brushed each other. One of them was tall, broad-shouldered, and boyishly handsome, with a thick mop of unruly curls. He looked like he could have been anywhere between twenty-five and forty-five years old. The other human ghost was shorter and significantly older than the first, with wispy, thinning white hair and a full, neatly trimmed beard. There was that special _something_ hanging about them that reminded Ben of his Uncle Luke, and so from that he had initially concluded that they were—or had been when they were alive—a Jedi Master and his Apprentice.

He’d stuck with that conclusion for a long time. Years. Until one night, one random night when he’d been wandering the Gardens, unable to sleep and browsing HoloNet news feeds on his personal datapad, _and he’d seen them_. They were kneeling together on the ground beneath a tall halspren tree, their bodies angled toward each other. As ever, they did not appear to be aware of Ben’s presence. They did not appear to be speaking either, yet cued by some sign that Ben could not detect, the elder ghost held his hand out. The younger ghost took that hand into both of his and brought it his lips…

…and kissed it. He kissed the back of the hand first, then the center of the palm, then the tender pulse point on the wrist, and then he pushed the elder ghost’s sleeve up and began laying a line of slow, ardent kisses up the inside of the inside of the elder ghost’s arm until their faces were so close together that there was nothing left but to take each other into a passionate embrace. Their union was beautiful, like a secret to be shared only with Ben, and it looked like they were becoming one—a single, indistinguishable entity through the eyes of the Force. There was nothing of the dark side here, nothing of it in them. Only beauty and radiant light.

The ghosts had still been kissing when Ben, flushed and hot, and had finally crept away. Afterwards, alone in his bed and reflecting upon what he had seen, he realized that he’d been wrong all these years: Those two ghosts weren’t Jedi Master and Apprentice. Or, rather, they weren’t _only_ Jedi Master and Apprentice. They were also devoted lovers.

That realization changed everything.

***

It was sweltering outside, the hottest, most humid day of the summer thus far this year. Several of the students, Ben included, had stripped out of their cloaks and tunics for the afternoon’s unarmed sparring practice.

Luke, of course, was dressed as usual. He didn’t even appear to be perspiring. Perhaps his desert upbringing had made him unusually heat-tolerant, or perhaps his apparent ease was one more outward sign of how completely he’d achieved mastery over even the involuntary physiological processes of the body.

Whatever the reason, many of the students who were experiencing discomfort, Ben again included, were impatient to be finished so that they could retire indoors where it was, at least, cooler.

“Master, why do you place so much emphasis on unarmed combat? We have lightsabers—what’s the _point_?” one of the students asked, showing her irritation in spite of herself.

Luke was unflappable and turned the question right back on the questioner. “Why do you think I place so much emphasis on unarmed combat?”

“Well…you always say that we shouldn’t use the Force unless we have to, and against most opponents we really don’t have to…hmm. There may be times that we have to fight unarmed, I suppose. Or perhaps we’ve been disarmed…” the student attempted to answer after an uncomfortable, pregnant pause.

“That is certainly true,” Luke agreed. “Anybody else have any ideas?”

Ben sighed and raised his hand. The sooner they got through this impromptu lesson, the sooner sparring practice would be over. “Because the action is the thought, and the thought is the action,” he said after Luke had acknowledged him. Ben had heard it all a thousand times before; he could recite these aphorisms in his sleep. “To draw your weapon is to use it. Never ignite your lightsaber unless you are prepared to follow your actions through to their conclusion.”

“Very good,” Luke said, “Ben makes an excellent point. A weapon, even when intended for defensive purposes, can be an incitement to violence—and there are other ways to resolve physical disputes. Ben, would you like to help me demonstrate a Corellian two-arm shoulder throw?”

Silently, Ben bowed, stepped forward, and aimed a fast punch at Luke’s jaw.

He knew what would happen before it did. His _father_ had taught Luke this move as a defense against drunken cantina brawlers. Luke would grab Ben’s right arm with his left, then his right, and use and redirect Ben’s own momentum to take Ben onto his back and flip him head over heels hard onto the ground.

And that’s what happened. Except for one tiny detail: Luke hadn’t used his right hand to grab Ben’s arm as he should have. He’d used a slight touch of the Force instead. Something had gone awry with Luke’s prosthetic hand.

After everyone had mastered the Corellian throw and practice was finished and the students had all fled to find relief from the heat somewhere (anywhere), Ben lingered. He wanted to confront Luke about what had happened.

“Master?”

Although he would always be “Luke” in the private universe of Ben’s mind, Ben never addressed Luke by his given name. He didn’t even call him “Uncle” anymore. Ben knew he’d been singled out by the other students as special from day one, as the inevitable favorite because he happened to be the Master’s nephew, the son of the Master’s twin sister Princess Leia Organa, heir to noble lineage of Jedi Knight and decorated General of the Clone Wars Anakin Skywalker, and he didn’t like having to live up to that sort of reputation. So, he made a point of being properly respectful, even when he didn’t think there was anybody to overhear, to try to be like any one of Luke’s twelve other students…even though that would never be possible.

“Yes, Ben? Thank you very much for your assistance, by the way. It was much appreciated.”

“Take off the glove and show me your hand,” Ben commanded, ignoring the expression of gratitude and getting right down to business.

Luke winced. He’d clearly been hoping that Ben wouldn’t notice, but he obeyed without further comment. There was less between them at times like this.

Ben took the prosthetic hand into both of his and began to peer and poke at it. It was a finely built, complicated piece of machinery, integrated into Luke’s own musculoskeletal system. But because he didn’t have the customary synthskin covering installed, all of the inner workings were exposed and visible. “This neurosynaptic line is loose. Let me tighten it.” Ben pressed the tip of his forefinger into Luke’s wrist. Ah, there. That would fix the immediate problem. Luke flinched as the connection was re-established. But there were other outstanding issues for sure. “Also, the servomotor connectors are badly corroded here, here, here, and here,” Ben said after several minutes’ worth of further inspection. “If you don’t have them replaced, one or more of them will fail completely.”

“Hmm. Sounds painful,” Luke remarked.

“It’ll be excruciating,” Ben agreed.

“Guess I should have them replaced, then.”

“Yes. It already hurts, doesn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Get them replaced.”

“I will. I promise. Soon.”

“Please do, Master. You shouldn’t have to suffer,” Ben said. That was only the truth; Luke deserved the best of everything. Then, holding Luke’s gaze with his own, haunted by the memory of the ghosts in the Gardens, he brought the hand, palm up, to his mouth and kissed it reverently. Luke didn’t pull away. Ben’s lips parted, and he flicked at the durasteel plating with the tip of his tongue. It felt smooth and warm. Luke _still_ didn’t pull away.

“You’re a good boy, Ben,” Luke said, smiling gently and stroking the side of Ben’s sweaty face with his left—his human—hand. Luke’s touch was electric, enervating. Arousing.

Ben’s heart was squeezed with terrible want—oh, how he wanted!—but any further words he might have said were ensnared, strangled low in his throat so that they died before they could be uttered.

If he couldn’t ask for what he wanted, maybe he could just _take_ it.

***

Slowly, so that it would make no sound, Ben eased the door to Luke’s cell in the Temple open. There was no lock on it. Luke, who owned nothing but his clothes and his lightsaber, who could defend himself against any conceivable threat, who believed he had nothing to hide, didn’t require one.

Although he might have claimed Master’s prerogative, Luke’s Temple cell was identical to those allocated to his students. It was a narrow, rectangular room with a large window opposite the door and a closet built into one wall for storing clothes and bedding. The floor was smooth, polished stone—pleasantly cool to the touch in this hellishly hot, humid summer weather—with enough space either for two beings to sit upright in meditation or for a sleeping pallet sized for one to be rolled out onto it at night.

It was night, and Luke was fast asleep in his bed, on his back, limbs sprawled and tangled up the blanket he had pushed partially aside, breathing even and deep. Ben slid inside, easing the door slowly shut again behind him, and knelt down beside Luke’s prone form.

The only light to see by came from the full moon through the window, but even in near darkness Luke was beautiful. Perfect. Ben remembered when Luke had started growing a beard, and how his mother had teased him. Are you _trying_ to look old and ugly? she’d asked. No, Luke had replied with a rueful chuckle, I don’t want Han to be calling me “kid” when I’m pushing forty. But really, it didn’t matter to Ben whether or not Luke was conventionally handsome…in truth, he knew, he would have felt the same if Luke had looked like that pointy-eared, wizened little ghost creature. Because this wasn’t about anything as superficial as looks. This was about desire.

Yes, desire. Desperate, relentless, needful _desire_. Ben couldn’t banish that secret, sizzling, erotic sight of the two ghosts kissing—making love—from his mind. Until that moment, he had never realized how lonely he was, how aching and hollow and _empty_ , and how much he needed to be intimate with someone to fill up that emptiness. To be filled up with light. With _Luke’s_ light.

But he was also afraid, so very afraid of Luke’s anger, his rejection, his indifference, or worst of all, his pity. And so, Ben would not attempt to wake Luke.

Instead, he lifted the blanket away from Luke’s body, exposing him. Luke didn’t stir. He was sleeping completely naked, a concession to the extreme heat, perhaps, or merely his usual custom. Ben wasn’t sure which, and quite frankly, he didn’t care, for he had eyes only for what was laid out before him like a smuggler’s hoard or a Hosnian banquet:

Luke’s penis, nestled in a messy thatch of ash-colored pubic hair, was already semi-erect.

Did he dare? Oh, did he dare? Ben’s mouth watered at the sight of the moist, rosy glans peeking through the foreskin. He wanted so very, very much to take it into his mouth, to taste its saltiness and its musk, to caress it with his tongue and suckle it, to feel it thicken into his throat, choking him with its length and girth, drowning him in pulse after pulse after pulse of thick semen—

Before he could second-guess himself, he grasped Luke’s penis between his thumb and forefinger, lifted it away carefully from his thigh, and stroked the loose skin up and down the shaft. Luke himself still didn’t stir, but his penis responded with alacrity to Ben’s touch, growing rapidly to what Ben considered an impressive size for Luke’s otherwise modest stature and proportions, and with only a small amount of experimentation, Ben discovered that Luke seemed to like it most when his foreskin was retracted fully and the frenulum on the underside of the glans was pressed and rubbed. He twitched in his sleep whenever Ben did that…and Ben did that a lot. Luke’s unconscious response was intoxicating, and Ben was rock hard too.

In the end, though, it didn’t take long—maybe a minute or so and certainly less than two—before Luke’s scrotum pulled in tight and he sighed sweetly and began to ejaculate into Ben’s waiting, cupped palm. Ben managed to catch it all. Then, while Ben quivered, licking at Luke’s semen as it dripped between his fingers, teetering on the precipice of his own spontaneous orgasm, Luke mumbled something incomprehensible and rolled over onto his side with a heavy exhalation, his back toward Ben.

Ben’s heart skipped a beat. He froze, terrified.

But Luke never woke up. Not even close.

Ben fled.

Somehow he managed to make it back to the privacy of his own cell before he succumbed, collapsing into a fetal position onto the bare floor, shuddering, one hand shoved down his pants and the other, still fragrant and sticky with Luke’s semen, covering his mouth so that none of the other students in the Temple would hear him crying out the Master’s name as he came, once and then a second time, with full-body muscle contractions so intense that it actually _hurt_ and made tears leak out from the corners of his eyes.

He spent the entire night on the floor like that, unable to sleep, shivering in spite of the heat…and reliving that exquisite moment when Luke had come over and over and over. The thrilling intensity of the pleasure he’d felt explode through the Force, so gorgeous, so precious, so _sacred_ , and the accompanying adrenaline rush, was like the finest, most potent of drugs. Ben was addicted now, and it would only be a matter of time before he’d need another fix.

But that wasn’t a bad thing. Nothing that had felt this wonderfully good could be wrong…right?

 

TO BE CONTINUED


	2. Luke

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI: I’m ringing in the New Year with a new user name. If you want to know what it means, well, the icon is a big clue. ;-)

Luke Skywalker’s relationship to sleep was often complicated.

It had started sometime during the earliest days of his boyhood on Tatooine. Although he couldn’t remember exactly how old he had been the first time, it was one of his oldest memories.

He’d been absolutely terrified, of course. What child wouldn’t be, given the circumstances? He had awakened in the silence and the pitch black, on his back and wholly unable to move, barely able to breathe… _because something—no,_ someone! _—was lying on top of him_. It was a living being, he was sure of it. Threatening and unyielding. Menacing. Dead weight over his body, much bigger and heavier than Luke himself. More likely male than female. But whoever it was, he (or she) wanted something from Luke, wanted it madly, and it wasn’t something he was certain he wanted to give—

Aunt Beru had come running when Luke had started to scream, bringing comfort and the warm yellow glow of a halogen lamp with her, and she had held him while he had bawled, wiping away the snot and tears when he had finally cried himself calm again. Then she had asked him what had happened.

“Someone was here…holding me down and…and…I think he wanted to hurt me.” It had been difficult to adequately explain.

“There is no one here but the three of us,” Aunt Beru had assured him. “You just had a bad dream.”

“But it wasn’t a bad dream! It was too real!” Luke had insisted.

“Our dreams can feel very real sometimes. Where do you think all your favorite bedtime stories about ghosts and demons come from?” Aunt Beru had chuckled then, tweaking his nose playfully. It was true: He’d adored her many fantastical stories and was always pestering her for new ones. “But it _was_ just a dream, Luke. A trick of the mind.”

Later in life, Luke would come to understand tricks of the mind all too well. And of course Aunt Beru had been correct—his mind _had_ been playing tricks on him. It wasn’t even a rare condition; many humans reported similar experiences while poised on the knife’s edge between dreams and wakefulness. Medical droids classified it as a parasomnia; most human doctors simply called it “sleep paralysis.”

In the meantime, though, with episodes akin to the first continuing at semi-regular intervals throughout childhood and into adolescence, Luke learned to enjoy them…much as he had enjoyed Aunt Beru’s scary stories, flying too fast through Beggar’s Canyon with Biggs and the rest of his friends, and generally fantasizing about exciting adventures in far off places. It became a thrill to awaken to a phantom presence and the feel of another being’s body pressing down demandingly onto his own, fun precisely _because_ it felt so disconcerting and gave him such an adrenaline rush yet wasn’t _truly_ dangerous, let alone real. He’d experienced his first orgasm this way, shocked and delighted, his untouched erection trapped between his belly and the mattress, semen pouring out of him, the intensity of it stealing his breath. And all the while Luke had felt his dream lover straddling his hips, his dream lover’s chest pressed firmly against his back and preventing him from moving a single muscle.

That imagined sensation of threat, that irrational presentiment of danger, had become erotic. Arousing. Finding an actual, living sexual partner had felt practically superfluous…not to mention the fire and fury Uncle Owen would’ve rained down on Luke’s head had, Twin Sun Gods forfend, he had ever been caught sleeping around as a teenager. Truth be told, he’d rarely needed to masturbate; the strange, visitation-like waking dreams and the orgasms which accompanied them were so much more viscerally satisfying. And he’d continued having them—as well as their rather messy consequences—right up until the day he’d departed Tatooine on the Falcon.

After joining the Rebellion, the dreams became progressively less and less frequent, and by the time he had redeemed his father and completed his training as a Jedi, he’d stopped having them altogether. Inasmuch as he ever gave the change any thought, he supposed he figured that he’d stopped _needing_ them. Unresolved questions about his father and family, his lack of purpose? All gone. He’d been made whole. Who needed mind tricks when one was connected through the Force to all life in the galaxy? Yoda had been right: His body was so much crude matter, unimportant, and he busied himself instead with the pursuit of hidden knowledge and spiritual enlightenment, with training the next generation. These filled his days. Clear air, water, and food were essential; sexual gratification was decidedly _not_.

His sleep, if not wholly dreamless, had become sexless, and he didn’t miss it. Really, he didn’t. Libido was a distraction, and Jedi were supposed to be celibate anyway. He’d learned that much from the old texts and histories that had been preserved, fragmentary and at times irrational, if not outright contradictory, though they were. Besides, Luke didn’t need to produce offspring; the blood of Anakin Skywalker flowed through Ben Solo’s veins just the same, and Leia had entrusted her son’s future to Luke. Ben might not be the child of Luke’s loins, but he may as well have been, and Luke loved and cherished him.

Lately, however, Luke’s sleep was again becoming…disturbed. A new phantom presence haunted his dreams, brought him ecstasy at night, and filled him with longing, with sensuous hunger, in the daytime that was causing him to crave the release of orgasm with an animal desperation he had never before experienced, never mind _imagined_ , not even during the worst of his boring, lonesome youth.

Something had clearly gone missing from his life. And though he did not yet know why, his intuition told him that the sleep paralysis was symptomatic; somehow, somewhere along the line, Luke had ceased to be whole.

***

A cheerful string of beeped binary chatter greeted him as he entered a Temple outbuilding turned makeshift toolshed.

“Ah, Artoo. Surprised to see you awake so late in the evening. How have you been doing?” Luke asked as he pulled a stool out from underneath the worktable at the center of the outbuilding’s interior and sank down heavily onto it.

R2-D2 rolled forward and emitted a low-pitched whistle followed by an eloquent farting noise. He spent most of his time out here these days, in low-power mode. Newer BB-series astromech droids were both more cost-effective and efficient, but Luke didn’t need one, and if he were honest, R2 was first and foremost a friend, someone to talk to who didn’t treat him like a living legend.

“That good, huh? Makes two of us, I suppose.” Luke flexed his right hand and winced at the dull ache the movement caused. He was wearing out, it seemed, one small piece at a time. Soon it’d be a piece of his flesh—a joint, maybe, a bone or an organ if he was unlucky. “It’s funny; I don’t remember getting old,” he said softly, staring blankly off into the distance for a moment before removing a small pouch from an inner pocket of his robe and dumping its contents onto the worktable’s surface: four replacement servomotor connectors for his prosthetic hand.

Luke removed his glove and laid his hand palm up on the table. This would not be a straightforward repair job, and he’d been putting it off past the point that it had become painful _because_ he knew it would be so difficult. A Jedi Master has more important things to worry about, he’d told himself. But in the end he’d finally had to admit defeat—the inconvenience and the pain were starting to interfere with his responsibilities.

With a small screwdriver, he opened his prosthetic hand’s control panel. Then he spritzed neutralizing fluid up and down the main neurosynaptic line, as far inside the workings as he could reach—he had no desire to make this more unpleasant than it had to be. Now the _really_ tough part: He was going to have to remove the old connectors, and because they were so corroded, they were all but fused to their respective motor propulsion shafts.

“Maybe I should’ve listened when they told me I should have new synthskin installed every two years,” Luke muttered as he maneuvered the sharp tip of a pair of pliers through the gap between his third and fourth finger in and up toward a knuckle joint…hmm, it wasn’t coming loose, maybe if he applied a bit more torque—

Luke let fly a long string of Huttese obscenities entirely unbecoming of a serene Jedi Master and leapt from his seat, pliers falling to the floor with a loud metallic clatter. R2 squealed with alarm. Oh Gods, that had _hurt_ —! Like Sith lightning turned backwards, starting at the tips of his fingers, shooting up along his arm, and exploding in a blaze of blue-white agony at the base of his brain stem—!

And worse was how unexpected it had been. Yes, he’d been using his non-dominant hand, and maybe he’d been a bit clumsy. But he thought he’d be able to keep his physiological responses under control, regardless.

Apparently even his best self-disciplinary techniques had their limits.

“I don’t suppose _you_ can do anything about these damnable servomotor connectors, Artoo?” he grumbled.

But no. Luke knew what R2’s response would be before he gave it. R2 was built to service starships and fighters, not poorly maintained prosthetic limbs.

He supposed he would have to ask Ben for help. Ben had been fascinated by Luke’s hand since he’d been small, and he’d applied himself to learning absolutely everything there was to know about its model, manufacture, function, and upkeep. He was a quick study when he wanted to be, and nowadays he knew more about Luke’s hand than Luke himself. Luke had come to rely upon his expertise.

Unfortunately, Ben would surely be fast asleep, and Luke wasn’t about to disturb him over so trivial a matter that could, at the very least, wait until morning.

Even though his hand continued to its awful throbbing. At this rate, _he_ wasn’t going to be able to get any sleep.

Luke decided to go to the Gardens to unwind. They were only a short distance from the toolshed.

***

Ask the average being out there in the galaxy what the Jedi Master Luke Skywalker looked like in meditation, and it would probably describe a middle-aged, bearded man in robes, sitting cross-legged, motionless, with his eyes closed, floating in the air a few centimeters off the ground. It wasn’t a wholly inaccurate description, and Luke taught the basic technique of seated, empty meditation to all of his students. For himself, though, he preferred moving meditation—ordinary, repetitive actions like walking, cooking, cleaning, or washing—for the purposes of centering himself and clearing his mind of distraction.

He was walking in measured circuits through the Gardens when he was joined by his father and Old Ben Kenobi. They fell into step alongside him, his father to his right and Old Ben to his left, three abreast in silent, easy companionship.

“You’re hurting,” his father said kindly after a time, placing a gentle hand on Luke’s shoulder. “Here, let me help take the pain away.”

Blessed relief surged through Luke’s body. Even those minor aches and pains he hadn’t previously noticed were gone.

“I suppose you _would_ know what it’s been like for me,” he said ruefully.

“No. I never allowed myself to fall into disrepair.” There was a mild hint of censure in his father’s voice.

“You should be in bed at this hour, Luke,” Old Ben pointed out.

Luke sighed. Apparently he was in for a scolding. It wasn’t unmerited, though, so he was resolved to endure it with grace. “Yes, Ben, I know. It’s just that I’ve…” Luke hesitated. Did he really want to talk about the sleep paralysis and the wet dreams with his father and Old Ben? Not especially! He decided to be vague instead. “I’ve been having a lot of strange dreams lately. I feel like a teenager again.”

“Your nephew is the cause of that,” Old Ben said, taking no apparent notice of Luke’s discomfort.

“Ben…?” Luke was baffled. Why would _Ben_ —?!

“Because his destiny and yours are bound together. When you were a youngling,” Old Ben continued, ignoring Luke’s confusion, “you used to enter my mind and share my dreams. Powerful Force-sensitives can be empathically drawn to each other, and given our relative proximity on Tatooine—”

“Oh, I remember,” Luke interrupted. These were not new revelations. “The love you and Father bear for each other has always been an inspiration.”

His father and Old Ben exchanged a quick glance that Luke could not interpret. “Luke, those were dark, dark times. Love isn’t everything. Sometimes it isn’t enough, in fact. We should not be held up as exemplars in this instance,” Old Ben said.

These were very old arguments, and they had agreed to disagree long ago. “But love is what saves us in the end. It’s what saved you, Father!”

“Yes. Your love and your faith redeemed me,” his father said. His smile shone brighter than Tatooine’s twin suns.

“ _Anakin_ …” Old Ben began, huffing.

His father ignored Old Ben’s implicit disapproval and said to Luke, “But Obi-Wan is correct. You should be in bed. Let us walk you back to the Temple.”

“Very well.” Luke realized he didn’t have the strength to argue with them further tonight.

By the time he had returned to his private cell in the Temple, the ghosts had already disappeared. Luke hardly noticed; he was thinking about Ben. Perhaps, he reflected as he undressed, folded his robes neatly away, unrolled his bed pallet, and slid comfortably into it, the dreams were a sign of something missing from _Ben’s_ life, some hollowness in _Ben_. Maybe this was the Force telling him that it was _Ben_ who needed to be made whole somehow, who needed Luke’s help. He would need to explore this in greater detail.

Later. Tomorrow.

At present, that now-familiar hunger was building inside Luke, and he did not try to resist it. He allowed his eyes to drift shut, and his breathing to slow and deepen, as sweet, sharp arousal began to pool low in his belly. He was hovering in that liminal state between sleep and wakefulness, imagining that he could feel the lustful presence of someone in the room with him. He was swelling, thickening, hardening in welcome. Yes, he thought, sinking without resistance into the thrill of the fantasy. Come. Lie with me, hold me down, let me feel the heavy weight of your desire…

That sense that someone was nearby, hovering over him, dark and menacing and dangerous, ready to _take_ anything that might not be offered, was intensifying. Yes, have me, Luke thought, I want you too. Rich, hot fluid was beginning to rise through the shaft of his penis, welling up at the tip and hanging there like a teardrop, suspended, before falling down again onto his quivering, sensitive flesh. And then there was another, and another, as he was pumped firmly, with confidence, and a delicate, dexterous tongue traced the outline of his scrotum—

Luke moaned. It still wasn’t quite enough; he was being teased. No, I want you on top of me. He canted his hips toward his dream lover, inviting more, more, _more_ —

Something was different. On this occasion, his body had actually moved. So it wasn’t just a trick of the mind…?!

Luke propped himself up on his elbows, and his eyes flew open just in time to see, by the weak gray light of the full moon, Ben Solo’s mouth close over his erection.

 

TO BE CONTINUED


	3. Ben II

Although he wasn’t supposed to bring a personal datapad into the Temple, Ben cared too damn much about what was going on in the galaxy to worry about what would happen were he to be discovered with it. His datapad would be confiscated and probably destroyed, of course, but Ben had the independent means to purchase a replacement…and besides, what would Luke do? Have him sent down, expelled from the Jedi Order? Ha! Right.

Ben had already endured his fair share of regular cleaning rotations over the years here, and one more stint mopping the communal refreshers or scrubbing dirty dishes in the dining hall kitchen as punishment was no hardship whatsoever. Sometimes, in fact, he almost found it relaxing—and given that there were droids specially designed for that sort of menial labor, Ben figured that perhaps that was the point. After all, it was Luke who chose to employ his students instead of droids.

Luke wasn’t stupid, though, not by a long shot. He wanted them to focus on their studies, on enhancing their personal communion with the Force. And so they would not be unduly distracted by an unquiet galaxy, he had ensured that HoloNet access, with the partial exception of three stationary consoles situated in the Archive, was restricted. All unauthorized HoloNet uploads and downloads were blocked within the Temple walls, and the rest of Luke’s students seemed to accept the situation without much question or protest. Inconvenience was sufficient to deter most beings, it seemed.

But not Ben, nope, not by twelve parsecs. Leave it to Han Solo’s son to find a loophole or three. Really, Luke ought to have known better.

The “loopholes” in question was found in the Gardens. There were certain secluded spots, behind a hyan bush here, in the middle of a carefully tended flowerbed there, the lichen-covered boulder over there, where the shielding Luke had installed did not quite reach and Ben could peruse the HoloNet at leisure and download his favorite mainstream and rogue newsfeeds for later perusal from the comfort of the bed pallet in his cell.

Tonight, as always, Ben had begun with a quick search for any news related to his mother. There was only one item on this particular occasion: a polite, perfunctory congratulations issued from Senator Leia Organa’s personal press office to the new, duly elected Senator for Coruscant. Yeah, yeah, Ben thought, same old moof milker whatever—

 _Whoa_.

The newsfeeds were so fired up by this underdog candidate’s victory in a special by-election that they were practically ablaze. Ben leapt out of bed and punched the air exuberantly. He would have hooted and cheered as well, if it wouldn’t have disturbed his slumbering neighbors. Coruscant had just voted to send its first ever Human to the New Republic Senate. At last! Ben was beyond thrilled. He’d assumed the man’s rumored First Order sympathies would disqualify him at the ballot box, but apparently even the affluent social moderates had given the majority of their votes to him. And of course the lower levels had turned out for him in droves. At long, long last, Coruscant’s silent Human majority were taking their ancestral homeworld back—!!

Hours passed in a heartbeat as Ben devoured every journalistic news account, every instant reaction piece, and every woeful commentary from the opposition that he could find. This was…wow. He couldn’t remember the last time reading the newfeeds had made him feel _good_ about the future of the galaxy. He had new hope. Maybe the listing ship that was the New Republic could be put aright and steered onto a better, more productive trajectory. This Coruscanti Senator would bring his strong will and much needed leadership to Hosnian Prime. He was already practically a shoe-in for Chief of State, and then he would put those simpering, equivocating, _useless_ politicians in their place and show them how it should be done!

Ben grinned at the bare walls of his cell, hopping from foot to foot, spinning, dancing, hugging his datapad to his chest with happiness—how he wished he had someone with whom to share and celebrate this tremendous development! _This_ was the sort of galactic government worthy of the rebuilt Jedi Order’s fealty! Yes, he would be proud to serve. Gods, Ben couldn’t wait for Luke to finish his training—!

Luke, who would be fast asleep by now.

His exhilaration was being transmuted into an altogether different—but no less intense—sort of excitement. His nerves were tingling, and he could feel himself hardening in his pants in anticipation of imminent satisfaction…

Oh yes, satisfaction indeed. He’d returned to Luke every night after the first, craving, desperate, _starving_ , and every night that bright, beautiful starburst of Luke’s pleasure overwhelmed his senses. It had been three standard months, and not once had he awakened. Not once. Not even close. In fact, as time had passed, Ben had begun to think that maybe his attentions were actually being welcomed: Luke was always fully hard whenever Ben came into his cell, ready for Ben’s touch, the gentle curve of the shaft fitting with perfection into the palm of Ben’s hand, all soft skin and warm, vulnerable, needy flesh, the glans a tantalizing fruit, moist and fragrant, tempting—no, inviting, pleading!—Ben to sniff, to _taste_ —

***

“Ben?!”

For a moment, he had thought it had been the excess of excitement about the by-election or maybe the endless, stifling summer heat making him lightheaded. For a moment, he had thought it was just his imagination, just his imagination that Luke had shivered and moaned and undulated his hips. For a moment, he had thought it was only because he had been wishing _soooooo hard_ …

Then reality set in. Ben froze, the weight of the world dropping abruptly out from under him as the sickening heat of a panicked adrenaline rush swept through his body. He’d been caught with one hand down his pants and curled around his own straining erection.

The other hand in question was wrapped around the base of Luke’s penis, guiding it into Ben’s mouth. Oh, his mouth was so full—

“Ben?” Luke repeated. The tone was one of inquiry, not censure. Not anger.

Instinctively, Ben swirled his tongue around the flared edge of glans and massaged the underside in the spot where Luke was most sensitive, pushing into it as he had done many nights previously with his fingers, using the same pressure and rhythm that had always made Luke sigh and come—

“Ben.” The tone remained non-judgmental, but it had firmed decisively. Ben could feel the tension building in Luke’s body, a premonition of…of _something_ in the Force which he did not yet understand.

He should remove his mouth and his hand from Luke’s penis. Remove his other hand from his own. Pull back. He should kneel before Luke in anguished supplication, head bowed and hands folded into the sleeves of his tunic. Say that it was wrong to be fellating his uncle—his mother’s twin brother!—that _he_ was wrong. Yes, that there must be something terribly wrong with _him._

Do not try to be understood. Plead humbly for your Master’s generosity and forgiveness.

Instead, Ben did only the first two of those things he should have done, returning Luke’s penis, wet and achingly hard, back to where it rested, pointed upward against the gentle, rounded swell of his belly, and easing his own hand out of his pants. Instead, he rested his cheek on Luke’s chest, right in the center, so that his head rose and fell in tandem with Luke’s every breath, so that his ear was filled with the steady beat of Luke’s heart, so that he could almost see Luke’s expression in the dim light of the full moon. He looked…unsure.

“Master…” Ben whispered. He felt hollow, empty, his stomach twisting itself into knots like it was trying to digest itself. He licked his lips, a nervous reflex, and savored how Luke’s salt bitterness exploded anew on his tongue, making his own penis leak in sympathy. “Master,” he repeated more strongly, “ _Master, please_ …”

Please, what? What _did_ he want? Ben’s fingers began to comb through the coarse hair on Luke’s chest, circling his nipples until they were pebbly and stroking his sides and then finally gripping and kneading his upper arms strongly enough to hurt, to bruise, although Luke did not flinch and showed no sign of any pain.

Hot tears had started streaming from Ben’s eyes. He hadn’t wept like this since he was a little boy, but he wasn’t ashamed. He knew what he wanted: He wanted to stay close to Luke; his very _being_ was howling for touch, for connection. Dimly, he realized he was already begging. “Please, Master, please, no no no, don’t send me away, I love you, Master, oh please, I want you, let me touch you, please, let me touch you, I want you so much and, oh, I love you, I love you, _I love you_ — _!_ ”

“ _Ben…_ ”

He squeezed his eyes shut, bracing himself for Luke’s inevitable rejection; it would hurt even worse if he were kind—

—and suddenly he was aware of Luke shifting beneath him, realigning their bodies so that they were chest to chest, and Luke’s left human hand was wrapped around his waist, clenching and unclenching the fabric of his tunic spasmodically, while his right prosthetic hand was light against the nape of Ben’s neck. Luke kissed the tears from Ben’s lashes, and he kissed his wet, sticky cheeks.

And he kissed Ben’s mouth, first the corner of his lips, then his lower lip, then his upper one. Ben shuddered convulsively, desire arcing through him like direct electrical current, and pressed down deeper into Luke as he opened his mouth in invitation. Luke seemed to hesitate for a moment, but soon his tongue was touching Ben’s tentatively, and tracing teasing patterns on the roof of his mouth, and it was Luke’s turn to shudder convulsively at the taste of himself inside Ben. And then Luke was sliding his hands underneath the hem of Ben’s tunic to caress the sweaty expanse of his back and pushing Ben’s pants down past his hips, exposing his buttocks and kneading them, and parting his own legs, lifting them high into the air…

“Have me,” Luke whispered, his mouth against Ben’s still so that Ben felt his lips shaping the words more than he heard them.

And when Ben’s exposed tip brushed that secret, wrinkled pucker, he couldn’t prevent himself from coming coming _coming_ , coming against it, coming _in_ it even as he pushed into that resistant ring of muscle, pushed hard, the glans all the way past now, pushed more, the sweet, long slide into warmth, all the way in, into _Luke_ , pushed harder, grinding his hips, pushed harder harder _harder_ , this time with his mind too, because even a physical joining wasn’t enough, no, oh, his beloved Luke, he needed to be _inside_ —

***

A momentary flash. The span of a second and the span of a lifetime. _Ben’s own lifetime_.

He was poised at the threshold of a sunlit nursery. Leia was in there, seated on a divan, and so was Han, standing protectively behind her. They looked exhausted but proud.

He hesitated, not wishing to intrude, but Leia smiled and inclined her head in welcome. As he approached, obliging but uncharacteristically shy, she shifted the tiny bundle in her arms: a red-faced infant already sporting a messy mop of shimmersilk-fine brown hair.

“Meet your new nephew. His name is Ben,” Leia said.

“Ben? Really?!” he exclaimed, surprised beyond measure. “But I would have thought—”

“That crazy old man _did_ bring the three of us together,” Han said, his tone of voice a shrug of ironic resignation. Clearly, that name would not have been his first choice.

“That ‘crazy old man’ was one of the greatest Jedi Generals of the Old Republic,” Leia said reprovingly, “and Ben’s going to grow up to become a great Jedi—I can already feel it. Do you want to hold him?”

He could hardly contain his excitement and knelt down on the floor at the Leia’s feet. His grief, all too near, and the pains of his losses, of the trials and tribulations of war, were momentarily forgotten. “Oh! Can I?”

Wordlessly, Leia passed her firstborn son—Ben, his name was _Ben_!—to him. Ben’s face was scrunched tight, almost non-Human in shape, comically ugly, so Luke caressed that face with the tips of his fingers, careful, oh so careful, because this was his prosthetic hand, encouraging it to relax. It did. Ben’s eyes opened. They were big and brown, just like his mother’s. A tiny hand reached out and took one of his fingers with a grip so powerful he knew he wouldn’t be able to shake himself free without causing Ben harm.

“He’s yours as well, Luke,” Leia said.

_Yours._

His heart swelled practically to bursting. He leaned in close to nuzzle Ben’s cheek, inhaling his tender, milky scent, and rained kisses over each and every last millimeter of his precious, fragile face. He didn’t think he’d ever loved so much before in his life. He hadn’t even known it was possible.

Mine.

Mine!

 _Mine_.

***

The vision ended. Had it been real? It had been real to Luke, and he had shared it willingly with Ben. _Because he loved him and always had._

Ben groaned, thrusting mindlessly now, so full of love he could no longer contain himself, so oversensitized by his previous orgasm that each stroke bordered on the painful, and Luke was clinging to him, kissing him desperately. They were already sunk deep in each other’s minds. Ben could feel everything Luke felt, the straining, needy body so wonderfully heavy on top of him, the thick erection impaling him and filling up the emptiness inside of him with the purest of sensual pleasures, and he knew that Luke could feel what he was feeling just the same.

Ah, they were close, so close, and this mutual embrace, this joining of their bodies wasn’t enough. Again, Ben remembered the two ghosts in the Gardens, the way in which the very essences of them had been merged irrevocably, past the point of separation. He wanted this with Luke.

As for Luke? Luke’s hips rose to meet each and every one of Ben’s wild thrusts. They were moving in unison, perfect, and…well, Luke only wanted what Ben wanted.

_< Yes, do it.>_

Telepathic communication. Ben hadn’t known such a thing to be possible! Luminous beings, indeed. His pelvis juddered violently as their spiritual energies, their essences, everything that Ben Solo and Luke Skywalker _were_ , started to knit together. Yet through it all, Ben continued to be aware of the crude matter of their bodies, that Luke’s penis was trapped awkwardly sideways between their hipbones, and he had a final, split second’s coherent thought that perhaps they ought to make themselves more comfortable before Luke abruptly crashed headlong into his orgasm—and took Ben with him. It was intense, joyful, magical, and it seemed to go on forever, pulse after pulse after pulse of semen spilling out from them, between them, inside of them, the celestial music of Force everywhere, all around them, between them, inside of them. Singing a duet. They’d never stopped kissing, no, not once the whole time, and Ben swallowed both of their cries.

 

TO BE CONTINUED


	4. Luke II

A new day dawned, bright, hot, and thick with humidity. Still the height of summer. It would be quite a long time before the rains returned.

Ben lay heavily on top of him. Still sound asleep and naked as Luke. Skin to skin, nothing between them. Sometime during the night, he’d risen briefly from Luke’s narrow sleeping pallet and removed all of his clothing. Now his tunic and pants were pushed into a messy heap in front of the door. A mini-barricade. Like that would be enough to stop any being from leaving or entering.

Dear, sweet Ben. Luke smiled fondly and turned toward the head tucked against his shoulder. Hadn’t it been only yesterday that he’d kissed that infant’s shapeless red face? Yet despite of the long, gangly limbs sprawling out from underneath the blanket, despite the fact that Ben was of age, nearly as—okay, Luke, let’s be honest—already much taller than Luke himself, despite his enthusiastic, uhh, _performance_ during their lovemaking, he still looked like a boy to Luke…and that, paradoxically, made Luke feel young again too.

Playfully, he began to nuzzle Ben’s cheek, tickling him with his whiskers and watching his facial muscles twitch and his nose crinkle in unconscious response. When Luke added sloppy, wet kisses to the mix, though, Ben began to wake in earnest, muttering semi-intelligible, half-hearted protests about wanting to sleep in a bit longer. _That_ really made him seem like a boy.

“Good morning,” Luke said. Loudly.

Ben’s body jolted. Ah, now he was awake.

“Master?” Ben mumbled, voice thick and clotted with sleep. His eyes opened. “Oh! I’m sorry!” He began to lift and roll himself off of Luke. “Gods, I’m so sorry—! I didn’t realize—! I must have been crushing the life out of you—”

Luke wrapped his arms around Ben’s torso, holding him in place. He didn’t want to lose this wonderful closeness just yet. “It’s fine, Ben. Don’t worry about it.”

“But _Master_ …!” Ben protested, squirming futilely in Luke’s embrace. “Doesn’t it hurt? How can you even breathe like this?!”

“No, nothing hurts,” Luke said. And it was true—nothing _did_ hurt this morning, not even his prosthetic hand. “And I have all the air I need. Everything’s fine,” he assured him.

“I don’t believe you,” Ben groused. “Cerebral hypoxia. Loss of oxygen to the brain. You’re not thinking straight.” He took a deep breath, as if to prove his point—

—and Luke’s diaphragm contracted strongly, his chest cavity expanding to its fullest extent as air whooshed through his nostrils and into his lungs.

“Whoa,” Ben said as the air rushed back out of Luke’s lungs again. “Did I do that?”

He had. A few more experimental simultaneous inhalations and exhalations confirmed it. Ben could also, whenever he so willed it, make Luke’s eyes open and close by opening and closing his own eyes. And _he_ could do the same to Ben’s blinks and breaths.

“We’ve become connected somehow!” Ben stated the obvious with undisguised wonder. “I-I can… _feel_ you!”

“And I you,” Luke replied.

It was true. He sensed Ben, both his body and his mind, as easily and naturally as he sensed his own. But they didn’t seem to have control over each other’s gross motor functions. Ben couldn’t even make Luke’s hand—either of them—open and close, for example. Thankfully, it looked like Ben wouldn’t be making Luke join him for an impromptu synchronized Twi’lek Twelve-Step at afternoon sparring practice anytime soon.

Nevertheless, many Jedi were able to achieve control over normally autonomous functions of their bodies that Force-blind beings of the same species could not. Luke kept his resting body temperature lower than normal for a Human during the summer so that he need not perspire; the thrifty habits of the desert native in him were hard to break, and he liked being able to conserve water. He’d been teaching some of the more valuable techniques he had pioneered on himself to his students. Like how to enter meditative hibernation, say, or how to temporarily stave off exhaustion. Successes thus far had been limited to what they’d practiced, though, and none, not even Ben, had been able to extend or apply his teachings to other parts of their bodies.

Admittedly, some of those applications could be considered extreme. It was possible, at least theoretically, for a Jedi such as Luke to stop his own heart. Were he to attempt it while projecting his thoughts in Ben’s direction, would he then take Ben with him into death? By the Twin Sun Gods, what a horrifying notion! That didn’t bear close consideration. No, not at this very moment.

And fortunately, it seemed that Ben had a rather different sort of heart-stopping activity uppermost on his mind.

“Master…”

Ah. He was going to be insatiable.

When Ben gazed down at Luke, there was no mistaking his nephew for anything but a man, a full grown man, liquid pupils dilated and dark with a promise of imminent passion. Luke could feel him starting to harden, could feel his own body responding in kind to Ben’s, and when Ben reached to take Luke’s erection in his hand, he touched Luke exactly how Luke would have touched himself, and it was only a minute or two before they were lost to anything but their own private galaxy…or anyone but each other.

Ben climaxed, untouched, when Luke did. They were one.

***

In the beginning, it didn’t occur to Luke to wonder about the ramifications, let alone the wisdom, of their actions. During the daylight hours, Ben was as polite and respectful of authority as ever, the diligent student who pursued his training with utmost seriousness and never asked for any kind of special treatment. If any of the other students noticed the change between him and Ben, they did not remark upon it—and it was difficult to imagine what they might have thought they were seeing anyway, not when Luke himself wasn’t certain.  

After nightfall, however, it was a dewback of an entirely different texture. Ben came to Luke’s cell each and every night, and then they would make love. Sometimes they took their time, kissing and caressing and tasting each other’s bodies nonstop for hours, allowing their passion to build gradually until they were both frenzied with their need for release. Other times it was like that first night, with Ben buried in Luke and thrusting wildly to a fast orgasm. Invariably, it would end with Ben, sweaty and replete, laying chest to chest on top of Luke and breathing for the both of them.

Once, Ben had asked Luke to penetrate him. Luke had refused. Unequivocally. Ben had sulked a bit but accepted his decision and never asked a second time.

Luke wasn’t sure why he had refused—why should sodomizing his nephew be any different, or any more taboo, than what they had already done in abundance? The act itself was no more objectively dangerous than any other, and it was not like he would be running the risk of impregnating Ben! Yet this was the one line his instincts told him not to cross. There was something… _something_ about the yawning, gaping, sucking pit of emptiness in Ben… Or was that emptiness in himself? He wasn’t sure there was any distinction anymore! Nevertheless, it gave him pause: For no matter how much he might strive to fill Ben—and succeed in filling him, he suspected that Ben would never be truly _full_ until Ben understood how to be full alone.

The first true hint of a problem came to Luke’s attention during a midday ethics seminar.

“—don’t _understand_ why some of you seem to think that pushing one being in front of the maglev train in order to halt it and save the lives of five-hundred passengers is somehow worse than pulling a lever to divert the train away from the broken track so that it kills one being who just happens to be crossing the alternate track instead! Why are they different?” the student asked, genuinely confused. “The outcome is the same either way.”

Luke nodded patiently. This was a difficult subject. “Would anyone care to offer their point of view?” he asked the group.

“Well,” another student volunteered, “the first scenario involves a direct act of murder by one’s own hands. The second causes death only indirectly. And perhaps you pulled that lever in good faith.”

“But good faith isn’t what we’re discussing. We already _know_ that if we pull the lever, we are killing an innocent being!” the first student interjected with some heat.

_< This is going nowhere.>_

All of a sudden, Luke’s patience ran dry, and it was replaced by a sharp stab of irritation at the thickness of his students, if not outright anger and disgust. He wanted to chastise them, to snap at them, to beat them soundly over the head with the proverbial right answer—

Wait, these weren’t his feelings. His eyes flicked over to where Ben was sitting in the back of the room. Ben’s face was impassive, expressionless, but Luke wasn’t fooled: He’d been experiencing _Ben’s_ emotions—his thoughts!—as if they were his own, and he hadn’t known the difference.

If anything, the recognition of what was happening made him _more_ angry, and it was only with supreme effort that he was able to rein in his negative feelings and calm himself down. His prosthetic hand gave an unpleasant twinge; he clenched it reflexively to dispel the pain.

“Ben.” Luke kept his voice deliberately soft and mild. “Do you have anything you wish to contribute?”

Ben blinked and looked surprised. Had he not realized what he was doing, how he’d been wallowing in dark emotion and projecting it to Luke? After a pause to gather his thoughts, though, he said, “Yes, Master, if I may. I know that you would have us believe that sacrificing one being to save five-hundred, however we choose to do it, is still an act of murder, a first step onto a path to the dark side and, therefore, a step that we must never take in the first place. You would have us believe that we must find another way to stop the train, even if that way involves throwing _ourselves_ in front of it instead.”

Luke nodded. So far, so good.

But Ben wasn’t finished.

“However,” he continued, heedless, “we have failed to take into account the _identities_ of the beings involved. What if the one person to die in lieu of the many were the Coruscanti Senator? In that case, surely his life is more valuable than those of five-hundred commuters…and the life of a single Jedi is almost _undoubtedly_ more valuable than virtually any other’s in the galaxy. Better to sacrifice the random stranger or even five-hundred random strangers for the greater good, I say, than to sacrifice oneself.”

Luke was horrified. Such arrogance, such selfishness! Was Ben even listening to himself?! He really needed to fix this, but…oh Twin Sun Gods! His prosthetic hand was throbbing now, raging torrents of liquid agony pouring through his nervous system, and he could hardly think straight. All he knew was that he didn’t have to deal with any more of this today. “Thank you for your contribution, Ben,” he said with as much of his Jedi Master’s dignity as he could muster, “but I’m afraid I will need to cut this seminar short; we are past due for midday meal. We will take up this discussion again tomorrow. Class dismissed.”

***

“My Master once did as you have done.”

“You mean…Master Yoda…?!” Luke was stunned.

“No, no,” Old Ben said, pointedly ignoring his father’s helpless chortling, “I speak of Master Qui-Gon Jinn…and his former Master. Dooku.” Old Ben spat out that name like it was a curse.

Count Dooku had led Separatist rebellion against the Old Republic popularly known to history as the Clone Wars. He had also, secretly, been apprenticed to the Sith Lord Darth Sidious—Supreme Chancellor Palpatine—and together they had conducted both sides of a devastating galactic war that led ultimately to the formation of the Empire under Palpatine’s tyrannical rule. His crimes against the galaxy’s sentients were unspeakable, his very name reviled, and Luke repressed a disgusted grimace.

“I never knew. Master Qui-Gon kept his own counsel. But in retrospect it seems that Dooku had been flirting with the dark side for years while still in the service of the Order. Only his close connection to my Master kept him in the light. After my Master passed into the Force, however…”

“Dooku fell,” Luke finished.

“Yes.” Old Ben’s expression was sad, regretful.

“But…” Luke hesitated momentarily as he considered the different angles. “But what Qui-Gon Jinn did was a good thing on the balance, surely? Otherwise, Dooku would have fallen sooner, and all of the valuable service he rendered to the Jedi Order during those intervening years would have otherwise been lost.”

His father shook his head. “It is foolish to think in hypotheticals, Luke, or to try to influence the shape of the future.”

“And Master Qui-Gon paid a terrible price for an act which may well have been in vain,” Old Ben added. “To open such a conduit in the Force is to accept that its energies will pass in both directions. My Master may have bound Dooku to the light for a time, but Dooku planted the seed of darkness in my Master in turn—and it ultimately annihilated him, erased his pattern from the very tapestry of the Force itself.”

“Then Ben… He…” Luke felt his eyes filling with tears. He couldn’t decide whether his prosthetic hand or his heart hurt worse.

“If what you have sensed is true, your nephew is exceedingly dangerous.” Old Ben’s words were compassionate but firm.

“Is this outcome inevitable, though? Ben, I used to _feel_ your love for Father when I was a boy. I didn’t understand it at the time, but now I—”

“No, Luke,” Old Ben interrupted, suddenly uncomfortable. Was he _blushing_? “You were feeling the darkness within me—year upon year of longing born of my grief and regrets and loneliness. What Anakin and I have only ever came into existence _because_ he was returned to the light.”

Luke sensed the truth in those words. What he and Ben had would have to end. An end to their joy, to intimacy, to exquisite union. He closed his eyes, and tears began to roll unchecked down his face and into his beard. Such a wasteful self-indulgence it was to cry…

“You mustn’t surrender to this grief, my son,” his father said. “Let us lend you our strength—”

Together, Old Ben and his father wrapped their arms around him. Luke welcomed their embrace and buried his tear-stained face in his father’s broad, strong shoulder. Old Ben murmured comforting nonsense and brushed his lips tenderly against the top of Luke’s head. His father massaged his prosthetic hand with one of his, their fingers intertwined. And bright, gossamer threads of Force wove themselves around Luke, penetrating him deeply and soothing his body and mind with their vibrancy, their vitality. The hideous throbbing in his hand eased. He sighed with pleasure—

 _< How…how _could _you?! > _

And then that blessed relief was gone, replaced by an all-consuming, howling black hole of jealousy and…rage. The worst of it was the abject look of betrayal on Ben’s face.

But Ben wasn’t here in the Gardens. He was…he was back at the Temple, pacing back and forth inside Luke’s cell. He had been awaiting him impatiently for hours past nightfall, wondering where he had gone. So how could Luke see him? How could Ben see Luke?! No, he couldn’t think about that now—

—because Ben was weeping and tearing at his hair. Roaring. Wailing. Screaming. And there was pain. Blinding, breathtaking, unendurable pain. Luke’s chest felt squeezed; his lungs wouldn’t take in air. His heart felt like it was going to explode. Oh no, Ben, no…! Don’t do this! He’d thought that Luke loved him, but he’d been deceived. Luke was cheating on Ben, and Ben hated himself for being gullible, for being duped, for not being _good_ enough for someone as precious, as special, as Luke. And now he was turning this rage, this self-hatred, inward, on himself, and _on Luke_ , but he wasn’t going to be able to control it. The screams intensified; he was being eaten alive from the inside out. There was perhaps less than a minute before his heart stopped.

Before Luke’s heart stopped as well.  

 _< No, Ben! Release it! You must _release _it—!! >_

Luke ran.

 

TO BE CONTINUED


	5. Ben III

He could have died.

If Luke hadn’t arrived in just the nick of time, he _would_ have died.

Because, truth be told, after what he had seen in the Gardens, he’d _wanted_ to die.

Really, he should have known. He should have known! Of course he wasn’t the only one who could see the ghosts—because if lowly Ben Solo could see the ghosts, then why wouldn’t the great Jedi Master Luke Skywalker be capable of perceiving them as well? And of course the ghosts wouldn’t ignore Luke like they ignored Ben. Oh no. They would want to interact with Luke, to be friendly, to be intimate, to…to _share_ themselves with him. After all, who wouldn’t want to give Luke anything and everything he wanted?

He understood that sentiment. So no, Ben didn’t blame the ghosts. It was only natural that they would be drawn to Luke’s light like a firemoth to an open flame. But Ben had thought that he—and only he—could command Luke’s affections in return. That their connection in the Force was unique, exclusive. Like the most sacred of marriage vows, only much, much deeper, more profound. Unbreakable. He’d have sooner torn his own heart out with his own teeth than do anything to hurt or betray Luke. He’d believed that Luke had felt the same.

Yet there Luke had been, in the arms of the two ghosts—and Ben could feel his submission to their touch, his joy, his ecstasy, like it was his own. He didn’t know how he had been able to see Luke and the ghosts from afar, and he didn’t stop to speculate. Immediately, hot jealousy and rage had filled him, trying to consume him from the inside out, to melt the very happiness of requited love within him down into a useless slag of spurned despair.

He’d tried to shut his eyes, to turn away, but the vision had been burned onto the insides of his eyelids. There was no unseeing what he’d already seen.

And so, as his rage burned, it set fire to old grievances, long-buried injustices. His parents’ arguments and absences. His isolation as a boy, the contempt of his peers. His shortcomings as a student, a Jedi apprentice, his inability to match the noble deeds of his illustrious bloodline. The unfair advantages afforded to lesser beings. His rage had burned and burned and burned, hotter and hotter, until it was a blazing inferno that he couldn’t put out if he tried, until it devoured everything, until it obliterated the useless, unloved, unimportant being that was Ben Solo from the face of the galaxy—

Until he’d heard Luke, so beloved, desperately calling him back, and he’d heeded the call of his uncle, his Master, _his lover_ , and he’d finally obeyed Luke’s command and released that burning rage.

It had exploded with the raw power of a thermal detonator, bringing the ancient walls of the Temple down onto his head…

…or it would have, if Luke hadn’t used to Force to hold them up long enough to pull Ben to safety.

Nevertheless, Luke’s cell, and indeed a good portion of the Temple’s residential wing, had been reduced to an unsalvageable pile of rubble and transparisteel shards.

Fortunately, none of the other students had suffered injury either. They’d all awakened and fled as soon as they’d sensed that dangerous buildup of energy emanating from Ben. But the fact remained that the Temple was suddenly and unexpectedly short of sleeping cells or any other private accommodation. Luke had been ready to relocate to the toolshed, but Ben had preempted him by moving out there himself. Our Master shouldn’t have to sleep out there, Ben had declared, and the other students had all looked at each other and silently agreed that they didn’t want any being as self-evidently unstable and dangerous as Ben residing anywhere near them.

***

Ben was nearly finished clearing the old junk from the toolshed. It was all piled outside, awaiting further relocation. Only an ancient, rust-bucket astromech droid remained.

“Out!” Ben commanded.

The droid came out of low-power mode, rocked furiously back and forth, and squealed a fast string of high-pitched binary at Ben.

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re saying,” Ben snarled, his temper flaring, “and I don’t care. Natural lifeforms always take precedence over cyborgs. And I don’t understand why you’re not already on a scrap heap anyway. You might as well be, you useless old machine!”

The droid emitted five low, staccato bleeps that ended in a drawn-out blat. Ben was pretty sure whatever the droid was trying to communicate was obscene.

“Okay, that’s it. I’ve had it.” He levitated the droid over to the door and, while it was still squawking indignant protests, Force-pushed it outside so far that it went careening out of sight and hearing altogether. Good riddance.

Ben rolled out a dozen or so freshly woven reed mats over the toolshed’s roughstone floor. Their sweet, grassy smell filled the humid summer air; they’d last for the rest of the season, at least. He’d lay his sleeping pallet over the mats at night, and he’d be perfectly comfortable. Yeah, this wasn’t going to be so bad. And as a bonus, Ben had discovered that he had excellent HoloNet reception in here, which was great. He’d begun regular correspondence with a few fellow First Order sympathizers, and—

There was a rustling sound at the entrance to his new private quarters. Fuck, it must be the droid again. That damnable piece of junk didn’t know when to quit. “I _told_ you to—” he began.

“Ben, I need you,” an all too Human voice interrupted.

It was Luke. Who had turned Ben away, cold and closed off, the last time Ben had tried to go to him and reassert his exclusive claim on Luke’s love. Who hadn’t even _spoken_ to Ben since the incident, let alone come _to_ him wanting—or needing—anything.

Ben froze. His heart skipped a beat and then began to race with renewed hope. He turned to face Luke, ready to say anything, to apologize, to beg for forgiveness, to get down on his knees in supplication, directly in front of Luke if necessary, to open Luke’s robes and take Luke into his mouth…

Luke entered, clutching his prosthetic hand. He was sickly pale and sweating profusely, and his eyes were red and wet with unshed tears. “Please, Ben, I need you to help me. I can’t fix this myself,” Luke said, his voice hoarse and hitched with what had to be nigh unendurable pain.

Pain that Ben couldn’t actually feel himself because Luke was closed off to him. But no matter. He still loved Luke more than life regardless.

“Show me,” Ben said.

Luke did, and Ben saw: _All four_ of the faulty servomotor connectors Ben had previously identified for Luke had failed. Why hadn’t he had this fixed already?! It made Ben want to cry.

“Do you at least have the replacement parts?!” Ben asked.

Trembling and silent, Luke removed a small pouch from an inner pocket of his robes and handed it to Ben. There were four new servomotor connectors inside.

“Please,” Luke whispered, the supreme effort he was putting into not simply writhing and howling in animal agony apparent.  

“All right,” Ben said. “But first, you must open your mind to mine. I need to be able to feel you to do this correctly. If the associated pain neurons are activated while the new connectors are installed, you may never be free of this suffering.”

“No. I can’t do that to you. It’s unendurable.”

“A burden is lessened when it is shared.” Yet another trite aphorism, automatically repeated, but on this occasion it was a wholly appropriate one. “It’s all right, Master,” Ben said, gentle as a mother nerf to its newborn calf, “I can control it.”

Luke looked skeptical. Ben waited. Luke took a deep, shuddering breath…and then he did as Ben asked.

It felt like being struck by Sith lightning _and_ hit in the gut by a sucker punch at the same time. Ben gasped. Wheezed. Nearly stumbled and fell. But then he steadied himself and pushed back through the mental conduit, pushing the sensation of painless wholeness, of all the rude health of his young body, back into Luke.

The awful tension in Luke was still there, but thankfully it receded enough for Ben to begin.

Even with the requisite tools (still conveniently close at hand), the job took hours to complete, and more than once, Ben had wanted to take a hammer to the whole thing and start over again with a new prosthetic. He couldn’t do that to Luke, though, not to patient, gentle Luke, who brought down the Galactic Empire with his kindness.

When it was finally finished, the two of them were sitting cross-legged on the floor, sweaty and exhausted. Luke flexed the joints of his durasteel fingers in wonder. How long had it been since they had not given him pain?

“You’ll take better care of yourself from now on, won’t you?” Ben asked.

“Yes.”

“Good.” Ben took Luke’s prosthetic hand into both of his and pressed a light kiss onto the upturned palm. Then he kissed each of the five fingertips in turn, the surface of each subtly textured and rough against his sensitive lips.

Luke’s eyes were wide and dark. He understood now exactly what this gesture had always meant to Ben. Yet he did not pull away.

Ben brought two of Luke’s fingers into his mouth and swirled his tongue around them, testing, tasting. He still didn’t pull away. Ben kissed Luke’s palm again, and then he kissed the pulse point of the wrist, where metal met vulnerable flesh. He pushed up Luke’s loose sleeve and kissed the inner arm…and then they were kissing each other, _hard_ , and Ben felt himself being taken into Luke’s arms—and his mind. Both of their minds were open, open and yearning.

Luke lay back, and Ben went down alongside him, tearing heedlessly at their clothing as he went, determined to be skin to skin—to _have_ Luke again—before Luke had the chance to reconsider. But Luke did not reconsider, and as was his wont, he pulled Ben on top of him, and Ben obliged his desires by putting the full weight of his body on Luke’s chest so that Luke couldn’t speak, could barely even breathe. Luke adored that, Ben knew, and it made both of their erections throb and ache.

It also gave Ben the opportunity to take that which he had thus far been denied. He was playing with himself so frequently these days that he was virtually always stretched and moist, and before Luke could do anything to protest, Ben had already begun taking him inside.

Even so, the hot, tight slide did hurt a little, and he sat up to take Luke deeper, groaning as Luke’s hips jerked beneath him. “Yes, _yes_ …” Ben was being broken open, broken apart, put back together, whole again; yes, _this_ was what he’d always been meant for. His eyes were half-lidded, his head thrown back, neck exposed, wanton. He began to grind, rotate, and bounce up and down experimentally, and the jolts of pleasure were piercing, mirror-bright.

Luke placed his hands on Ben’s hips to steady him and meet his thrusts. He made no attempt to push Ben off, to stop this; he was already overcome by lust. They found their rhythm in short order, and it became fluid, sublime. Ben controlled it, lifting nearly off of Luke’s penis entirely before falling back down, anus contracting against the base as he bottomed out. Every shared stroke was intense and perfect, striking Ben’s prostate and making him leak beads of clear fluid.

“Master, oh, Master, I love you so much, Master…” Ben whimpered. This was a dream come true.

_< Call me by my name.>_

Ben gasped as Luke punctuated the psychic command with a hard, sharp thrust. “But…”

_< It’s what you want.>_

“Luke?” Ben tried. Luke inclined his head, brow furrowed with concentration as he tried to make this last for both of them. “Luke, Luke, Luke, Luke…” Ben repeated, encouraged, chanting his name as their rhythm accelerated and the passion of their union began to overtake them.

Abruptly, Luke flipped Ben over onto his back and resumed thrusting. He was pounding into Ben in earnest now, each frantic stroke bottoming out and making them groan. Luke’s face was flushed, and he was sweating hard, and he slid his hands down to Ben’s buttocks to pull them even tighter together. “I-I…I’m going to—” Luke whimpered between panting breaths as his thrusts became increasingly erratic.

“Yes, do it! Please, Luke, I want to feel it! Fill me up—” Ben wrapped all four of limbs around Luke and held him close.

That was sufficient. Two more quick, shallow thrusts, and Luke stiffened against him, gasped, and began to ejaculate. It was absolutely glorious, being filled with pulse after heady pulse of warm semen, Luke’s expression crumpling as he lost control. He really was lovely like this, Ben thought to himself, so unrestrained and dazed by his own pleasure, and—

Oh.

Completion raced through Ben’s body like a burst of molten heat deep inside, sweet and aching. He clutched at Luke ecstatically as he began to ejaculate as well, distantly aware of his own moaning. He’d never felt so full, so completed, so perfect. He didn’t know where Luke’s orgasm stopped and his own began. They both seemed to go on forever.

It was like tasting eternity.

And Luke continued rocking in him tenderly until he was no longer able maintain his erection and his penis slipped out.

“I love you too, Ben. Oh Gods forgive me, but I do! I love you…” Luke said into Ben’s shoulder sometime afterwards. Ben could feel his guilt, his shame, and the wet trickle of his tears.

He could feel his love.

In the gathering darkness, Luke clung to him. They kissed.

***

Their secret liaisons resumed, and Luke visited him regularly. He came most nights…but not all.

On those rare nights when Luke did not appear, Ben would go into the Gardens because he knew he would find Luke there, deep in meditation. Sometimes, he could entice Luke back to the outbuilding with him. Other times, they would make love right there in the Gardens, out in the open, the possibility of discovery making the sex all the more frantic, intense.

There was one night in the Gardens, though, that stood out. When Ben had located Luke, he was not walking as was his custom. Instead, he was on his knees, bent double, his arms wrapped around himself. He was shaking and sobbing.

“Ben! Where are you?!” Luke cried out, his voice thick and hoarse with grief.

Ben was startled; he hadn’t realized Luke had been aware of his presence. He stepped forward, hurrying, responding instinctively and without question to Luke’s evident, desperate need—

“Father, please! Why won’t you come to me?!” Luke cried out again.

Ben skidded to a halt. Luke wasn’t calling out to Ben; he was calling out to—

The two Human-shaped ghosts appeared, the elderly one with the full beard and thinning white hair, and the younger, bigger one with the boyish, clean-shaven face and the unruly mop of curls. They knelt down on either side of Luke and embraced him, cocooning him protectively in their soft bluish light. The third ghost, the diminutive one with the long, pointy ears and the walking stick, stood slightly off to the side, watching.

“ _Ben… Father…_ ” Luke continued weeping, heedless, repeating those two words over and over. He didn’t know the ghosts were there.

The little, pointy-eared ghost looked directly at Ben. Its ears drooped at the sight of him, and it shook its head sadly.

In that moment, Ben realized that he may have been mistaken: Those ghosts were the spirits of Anakin Skywalker and Obi-Wan Kenobi. They were Luke’s mentors, not his lovers. He’d had no rational reason to be jealous.

In the end, though, Ben Solo decided he didn’t care.

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> Some of the characters in this story also appear in “[That Sleep of Death, What Dreams May Come](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7731400),” “[What Dwells in Us](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10237940),” “[Sanctuary](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12227670),” and the rest of the stories in the [From Undiscovered Countries Vignettes Collection](https://archiveofourown.org/series/563048). However, your basic understanding and enjoyment (or lack thereof) of any of these stories shouldn’t be affected by not having read any of the others. For convenience, I have created an AO3 collection for all of these loosely interconnected stories [here](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Star_Wars_Undiscovered_Countries).


End file.
